


The Epic of Casey

by trash_devil



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, Necromancy, casey deserves respect, post everything i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2020-02-10 11:56:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18659941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trash_devil/pseuds/trash_devil
Summary: The Crook of Frailty glimmers darkly. The whorls and grooves carved into its wood spell out a story: her story. The world may never know it, but she does not need the world to recognize her deeds.It only needs to recognize her power.





	The Epic of Casey

She cuts an imposing figure, silhouetted against the last strains of light from the darkening sky. Her scarf billows in the wind.  
Her sticky yellow hands were not made for holding, but hold she does. The Crook of Frailty is grasped tight in her amphibian grip.

Her lips part around a bubble. It bursts with a tiny _pop,_ deafening in the silence.

Darkness swirls above her. It is a wound torn in reality itself, dripping black ichor like poison to the land below.

_pop._

Lightning rips through the air, illuminating the silent army that surrounds her. Their empty sockets and frozen grins glisten. Wind whistles through their bones.

She is a speck of gold in a sea of night, a spark of life surrounded by death. She pulls back her hood so that they may behold her and raises the Crook high, her eyes glinting with steely salamander determination.

_pop._

And all hell breaks loose from the tear in the sky.

A torrent of spirits, double-dead and double-dying, fizzle into nothing like mist under the sun’s touch as they fall.

Casey and her army stand their ground. Such spectres mean little to her. They will not be raised again.

She cannot.  
She _will_ not.  
They deserve their rest.

They are not why she has come.

The air grows thick with apprehension. The ground quakes. Something terrible is coming.

A lesser creature would flee.

Casey does not.

_pop._

His mountainous form emerges. His green muscles ripple, billiard ball eyes roll aimlessly in his skull. The foul birth of a god. 

Of something higher than a god.

Only semantics, Casey might think, if she knew what semantics meant. It is a word Rose could be proud of.

Lord English plummets from the sky in a rain of corpses.

He hits the ground with a tremor that shakes her army’s bones. 

There is a moment. A tense silence. Expectation hangs over the scene.

Casey points with the Crook. “glub,” she says.

Lord English’s eyes rattle in their sockets. He looks down upon her.

Casey glares back. _“glub,”_ she repeats.

She is tiny next to him. He could easily crush her, smash her soft body in his thick fingers.

He could.

He should.

He reaches out to do so.

Casey pulls herself to her full salamander-y height as his hand begins to fold around her, ready to bring about her end.

Except it doesn’t.

It stops, frozen in midair. His fingers twitch. He cannot curl them inward. It is as though some invisible force surrounds her. 

The Crook of Frailty glimmers darkly. The whorls and grooves carved into its wood spell out a story: her story. The world may never know it, but she does not need the world to recognize her deeds.

It only needs to recognize her power.

Lord English tries to pull his hand away, and finds he cannot even do that. The air around him is unyielding, a solid pressure that he is powerless against.

He is not used to being powerless.

It is suddenly clear that the army is just for show. A dramatic, grimdark show. A touch of Rose flavor.

Not that Casey is thinking of Rose. She is doing this for herself.

Casey looks Lord English dead in the eye - or, at least as close a slightly wall-eyed salamander looking into two wildly spinning billiard balls can get. Her mouth opens around another bubble.

and

his heart

simply

bursts.

_pop._

 

Casey turns from the colossal corpse. Her cloak billows. The skeletons chatter.

Behind her back, Lord English slowly rises. His hulking figure seems even larger than before. 

“glub,” she says without turning. It is a very meaningful glub. A little dismissive, a little flippant. 

Lord English’s head bows.

“glub.”

His green skull sinks lower.

“glub.”

Lower.

She faces him then in a whirl of dark cloth. She plants a tiny yellow foot on his forehead.

“glub,” she finishes.

For a moment, there is no sound. Just wind, bones like chimes, a hollow whistle that makes the world feel empty. 

Casey moves her foot back to the ground. She has left a sticky little footprint on his skull. 

Her shuffling horde follows as she walks into the distance. There are more Lord Englishes to kill. 

Perhaps they will surrender when they see their own faces staring back at them from her army, trophies of her impossible victories.

Probably not.

No matter. They will learn, one way or another, that they are no longer invincible.

The end is coming for them.

And her name is Casey.

_pop._


End file.
